


Electric Space Prince

by princerai



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Daddy Issues On The Side, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Human AU, Magical Boy Shenanigans, Reincarnation, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princerai/pseuds/princerai
Summary: Thor is just a boy living his life in New York City, or, trying to live his life, trying to get his shit together.He's not having an easy time of it- and having evil monsters come crashing down on him and the city? That's not helping.A somewhat silly, somewhat taken seriously, Sailor Moon-based AU.





	Electric Space Prince

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhhhhhhhh this is super indulgent. I love reincarnation as a concept and I entirely blame Sailor Moon for that. I also love the similarities between Usagi/Serena's backstory when compared to Thor. This is mostly a 'let's take elements of Sailor Moon and throw it at Thor for some good old fashioned 90's anime fun'. 
> 
> I don't expect to go too far with this. Might make another chapter, might not. If I do, it would go toward thorki tendencies, hence the tag. Right now it's just sort of squint for it. For right now you'd probably be okay if that's not your thing.

Today, hands fucking down on the fucking table, is the worst day of Thor’s life, and it’s not even noon.

First of all, it’s July. Fucking July. July in New York City, where venturing from the safety of air conditioning was a fool’s venture and touching the blacktop meant instant disintegration of one’s flesh. Yesterday at breakfast Thor considered tossing an egg out onto the sidewalk, just to see whether it really would fry like he’s seen in stupid clickbaity articles online.

Then today, _today_ , he opens his windows, and ice crashes down onto his bare hands, shaken loose from the roof above. Honest to god ice, cold and sharp, ow, the back of his hand needs to be bandaged straight away. 

Looking out into what was once hazy tar and dozens of slime-crusted dumpsters lining the alleyway below his window, he sees far more than shards of ice. Fluffy thick snow blankets the black lids of the dumpsters, hiding the filth beneath, all the shattered beer bottles on the ground buried in white.

He stares, watching the fluttering flakes still coming down, groggy. Considers pinching himself, but, no, he knows he’s awake, he’s shivering in his black boxers and his dreaming self would not be this damn aware of how damn _cold_ he is. 

And it hits him, sharp like the ice that came slicing through his hand- the garden.

Fuck. All that hard fucking work, throughout all of spring and summer, no, no, he has to see, he has to be sure. When he moved here, doing the soul-searching thing all young men his age do (and maybe, just maybe, fleeing from a father that had his grip so tight on Thor that he shattered and escaped in a thousand little pieces but that, that’s a story for another day)-

He came to this apartment building, just to be sure it wasn’t so shitty that it was unlivable, and standing before him was a plain gray building, boxy, unassuming, and a garden.

He never thought that green could be so green. Dozens of tomatoes, herbs, peppers, rows and rows of life, begging to be picked and cooked into something truly beautiful, something worthy of all the labor that went into growing them.

He was never allowed to bring plants into the house when he was a child. Maybe it’s rebellion. Or maybe Thor has a softer touch to him than his father would want him to have. 

Maybe he just really likes gardening, who fucking knows. 

Thor wasn’t an idiot, he made certain to get a good look at what the apartments were like inside. 

But he didn’t exactly go checking out any other apartments, either. 

It takes Thor five long frustrating minutes to locate where he stuffed the one winter coat he has ever found that actually fits his broad shoulders beneath a great deal of bullshit in his closet, and it takes him another two minutes to locate his snow boots. He can’t get either of them on quick enough and doesn’t even bother with socks; his ankles are raw by the time he’s out his door and down the hall.

(The very, very quiet hall, very still-)

He rushes out the front doors, and it’s exactly as he knew it would be, but he still freezes, finds he can do nothing but stare. The rows of green now lie in gray shambles, dying branches and leaves bending in surrender beneath the snow’s weight and others barely peeking out from the white. 

It is with trembling hands that he approaches his own row, and that one has suffered the most, bearing the youngest plants, too vulnerable to take on the sudden cold snap. He kneels in the untouched snow, legs leaving slender imprints. Taking a branch in hand, he watches in horror as it crumbles to pieces at his mere touch.

He could have sat staring for hours, were it not for the silence. It shakes through his bones, the absence of the city’s pulse, of life.

Lifting his head, he sees them: bodies.

Lying outside the apartment gates. 

Lying in the streets. 

Thor does not know what it is that drives him to leave behind his plants and approach the fallen. That sensible little voice in the back of his head, probably his sense of self preservation, shouts at the top of its lungs, demanding to know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, these people could be sick- but he knows he must investigate. He simply must.

No blood. No gore. No guts. These people dropped where they were standing, clutching their phones, driving their cars, holding the hands of their children and loved ones. Many lay dropped in the middle of the street, limbs splayed at awkward angles, like they didn’t even have the chance to catch themselves before falling. 

Heart caught between his ribs, Thor pauses over a young girl in pink overalls, her apparent older sister lying prone at her side, their fingers caught in a messy tangle. He stoops over, presses his fingers to their wrists.

Lively pulses. He feels like he should be relieved. 

The desolate diner across the road from his building now bears a gaping hole, perfectly shaped to the taxi that came barreling through its wall and sent bricks soaring through the air. The ruckus it must have created- it might have been what woke Thor. He comes around to the driver’s side, sees the poor cabbie sagging forward in his seat, but he’s fine, not a scratch to be seen. Still, Thor reaches past him to take the keys from the ignition, and drags the driver from the car to deposit him safely onto the sidewalk. 

Much like the mess of bodies outside, the diner’s occupants lay across their tables and at the countertop, useless. One poor waitress collapsed clutching a tray of coffee, the hot drink spilling and spreading in a dark puddle over the checkerboard tile floors. Thor toes around the ceramic pieces of the  
broken mugs, careful to sweep them aside with his boots like she might get up any moment and roll onto them.

“Very thoughtful of you.”

Thor’s lucky to have a hold on the garish neon green booth. He grips, veins taut, faced with the single living being left standing in seemingly all of New York City besides himself.

This being sits in a booth all the way at the back of the diner, beyond where the light reaches. Yet, their eyes shine gold, brighter than the sun itself, and so Thor stands tall, lets his body do the talking: come closer at your own risk.

“What’s going on here?” His voice takes up too much space in this frozen environment, jarring against the stillness of the dozen diner occupants. “Why are you still – moving?”

(Why am _I_ still moving, the unspoken question goes.)

“I already know that you will not believe me.” The being stands, their voice, their movement, equally smooth, silken. They approach, slow, but casual enough that it somewhat disarms Thor. “You have much to remember in a short amount of time and as much as I have missed our talks, we cannot waste any more time.”

In the light, they appear to be as average as anybody else lying on the floor and booths here- a man in a dark fitted shirt, simple jeans, hair drawn back in dozens of braids, except for those golden eyes that pierce through Thor, make him feel like this man has known him since birth.

It’s just that Thor has never seen this man in his life.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Do you have to make things even more weird?” 

The stranger stands straight, unmoved by Thor’s profanity. His gaze never moves from him, not even while he reaches behind himself, and Thor steps back, expecting a knife, a gun, but- certainly not a hammer.

Not just any hammer but a battling hammer, runes inscribed throughout the steely gray of its head, hilt providing the perfect grip, and, and, and, goddamn _familiar_.

“Your answers,” the man says simply, gesturing to the hammer with his free hand, “lie here.”

Thor gapes at the hammer, then at the man, then again at the hammer.

“I don’t understand.”

“Touch it. You shall understand.”

Again, Thor’s gut instinct is to utter profanities, maybe start swinging, except this stranger is unendingly patient, never moving, just gazing to Thor and waiting for him to touch. 

“What the hell.” Nothing else was making sense. No more summer, the entire population of the city lying lifeless on their backs, _his plants_ —

Fine. 

He wraps his hand around the hammer’s hilt- and falls to his knees.

For a split second, a single thought nestles between the vicious explosions of thunder, coherent and curious: it’s an awful lot like being mowed down by a speeding train. 

Whatever _it_ is. It, this rush, this sensation, these thousands of sensations, of hands, blades, mouths, blood, ash, water, rain, electricity, writing themselves all over his skin and he remembers what it’s like to be Thor. 

Not Thor of Earth, a young man hiding in his garden from the world that sits upon his very soul like an ill fitting gauntlet. 

Thor, of Asgard, the prince, the future king, protector of the Nine Realms, master of the heavens and the life that flows through the soil. 

Through the golden waves, he feels eyes upon him, full of pride, full of hope, of knowing that this, this is right. 

He opens his own, sees past the columns of a palace he once knew as home, past a throne that waits for his eventual claim, past a bridge of a thousand colors— 

And he stands in the diner. Cold. Gray. 

Thor blinks, looks at the man before him, still utterly plain but— blinking again, he sees armor, as brilliant in color as his eyes, and the smallest of knowing smiles pulling at his lips. 

He knows this man’s name. 

And yet—

“What did you do to me?”

Yet that’s all he can ask. Because the Thor of Earth is still here, because he does not simply get erased the moment the Thor of yonderyear awakens. 

“Why don’t you take a look for yourself?”

He can already feel the change, that he’s no longer in his winter coat and boots, but he hesitates to look, finds he’s _afraid_ of what he might see, but he has to look at himself eventually. Eyes down, he sees a breastplate, gleaming silvery steel, blue leathers, chainmail winding across his arms. He sees a warrior’s body, ready for battle.

His eyes are drawn to the hammer, light in his hands despite her sturdy head.

Heimdall- yes, that’s his name, he knows his name despite having never spoken it- he sounds far away when he speaks. 

“Have you never felt that you were meant for something more, Thor? And do you think it coincidence your parents were compelled to name you after the figure of legend?”

“Maybe they’re just mythology buffs.” 

That’s a lie. His father’s cultural interests go as far as loving football and beer and just — a Dad. He’s just a Dad. 

Heimdall inclines his head, stares Thor down in a way that goes right /through him/ and it’s all nostalgic and uncomfortable at once and he huffs, draws the hammer up like it’ll defend him from the man’s all seeing eyes. 

“Whatever. If there’s something I can do about— all this,” Thor gestures to the fallen bodies, waving Mjölnir about. “Then show me what’s to be done. No more cryptic nonsense. Lead me.”

This time, Heimdall truly, fully smiles. The flickering golden armor grows solid and real, til he stands brilliant before Thor, perfect and strong. 

“That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, sire.”

-

Heimdall walks with a purpose through the city’s snow dusted streets, a golden sore thumb amongst the errant cars and cabs left standing in the middle of the road. Thor can only follow and listen.

“Asgard is legend only in that it is old and a long, long dead planet.” Heimdall took careful measured steps, leather boots drew long trails in the snow. “She was destroyed, centuries ago, and her people’s souls were scattered to the stars to find refuge.”

“And I suppose you’re saying I’m one of them.” Thor imagined himself drifting through endless space, snoozing away, blissful in his ignorance to the space debris floating all around him. “They left the whole scattered souls thing out in the books I was read.”

“You know the story then.”

Thor reaches back, far, far back, when he was still young enough to be told stories— back when he knew what his mother’s voice sounded like. 

“Yeah. Everyone’s parents tells them about how there was once a kingdom of gold and magic and all the usual fairy tale nonsense, but it always scared kids shitless because out of nowhere this big bastard Laufey comes down and eats everybody, the end, no real big lesson to be taught.”

“It wasn’t quite out of the blue,” Heimdall says, mouth curling down. He comes to a pause at a four way intersection, effortlessly lifting himself up onto a cab so he may survey the area from higher up. “Asgard’s king at the time may have been reckless and stole land from Laufey’s people, the Frost Giants. Contracts were unclear, trades were unfair, the exact reason has warped and lost meaning over the centuries.”

“Sounds like an overreaction to some political bullshit,” Thor frowns. He follows Heimdall’s gaze, trying to pick out just what he’s seeing in this mess of stalled vehicles and limp legs. 

“Even then it is not that simple. Asgard was a rich and powerful empire. Envy ran rampant throughout the realms; Laufey was the only one to do anything with that poisonous desire.”

Thor nodded, thought /maybe/ he understood, but —

“I have a mother and father here on Earth.” Had. He left that part out, somehow felt Heimdall already knew anyway. “I was born— there’s literally footage of me being born. I’ve seen it, like, way too many times, Mom was stupid proud of it. What’s all this make them, if I’m Thor? Doesn’t that make that king you’re talking about my — ?”

(It didn’t sound like either Thor had lucked out much in dad department.)

“Reincarnation is a messy thing, sire.” Heimdall leapt from the cab roof, landing in the snow and straightening with ease. “Even I struggle to comprehend just how it works.”

“Speaking of understanding and struggle and all that, uh, you look like you actually know where you’re going while I, on the other hand, do not.”

“We go where the snow is thickest. That is where we will find the source.”

Indeed, following the line of Heimdall’s gaze, Thor sees the snow is piled higher on the ground, up to their knees in the street. 

“And that makes total sense.”

“We can’t waste any more time.”

Thor sighs. “Right.”

They drift in silence for a good while longer, leaving Thor in his head, chasing his own life in circles. 

He’s a prince. A warrior. A figure of legend. The little boy he was, trying to find unsteady footing here in a city that eats children like him without so much as a blink, that was a guise, just to keep him hidden until he was needed again. 

A scathing little demon in his brain wonders if being that Thor, the Thor would be enough to impress his dad; a far more intelligent demon reminds him it hardly matters.

And absently, he wonders, just what his brother would think.

And it’s like a tightly wound band just snaps.

“Fuck, fucking hell, no, how could I be such an idiot, no, no, no-”

“Sire?”

Thor holds his head, fingers tangling in his hair. The hammer drops into the snow, steel burrowing beneath the white. He pulls, the burning through his scalp doing nothing to ground him. 

“My brother, I, he, he’s in Boston, or he won’t be, he was leaving this morning, comin’ to move in with me and he’s probably caught in some delay, or he’s collapsed too, what if he was in a car, what if a train— oh god—“

“Thor.”

Heimdall’s voice reaches him through the panic, just the same as his hand reaches and grasps Thor’s elbow, warm even through his snow-dusted chainmail. 

“This phenomenon you’re seeing, it’s exclusive to New York. I followed the creature causing this all the way here, hoping to cut them off before they could cause any trouble, and I failed. This snow is the manifestation of its powers; all humans— and humans only— that touch it, will instantly collapse.”

Heimdall’s grip tightens, grows serious, the set line of his mouth gone grim. 

“What you’re seeing is the energy of an entire city population being sapped for the sake of a single creature’s parasitic needs— it is a step toward destroying the city, and all that lies beyond it. So long as your brother was not in the city when the storm began, he will be fine.”

“But not these people, not if we don’t do something,” Thor says in a breath, his words riding on the fog falling from his lips. 

“Precisely.” The note of relief in Heimdall’s voice doesn’t go undetected— Thor lets it slide. If he can find this parasite, then it won’t have a chance to reach his brother, and then, all of this, it can-

(Can this, Thor’s _this_ , ever really go back to normal?)

Releasing Thor, Heimdall sets off again, his stride purposeful now. Thor can do nothing but follow again, kicking his legs up past the ever growing mounds of white. 

Despite his determination, a single question lingers. 

“What does all this mean for my brother? Me being- that Thor?”

Heimdall doesn’t even turn his head. 

“It means you’d best work fast, if you hope to meet him at home tonight.”

Thor sees the dead end to the line of questioning and yet he longs to beat his fists against it. 

-

It seems they walk for hours. Thor’s legs burn to the bone, numbed to the deepest marrow. Snow climbs up to just above his knees, and together, he and Heimdall scale over hills where it has gathered deepest, cars crushed together beneath- and making certain the people inside are alright before moving on. Painful as it is, every body he sees collapsed to the ground is a shove to the back. Tired? Too bad, there is work to be done, and he is going to be the one to do it.

Heimdall swings his arm out in front of Thor without warning, just as he leaps down from yet another stalled car. Dozens and dozens of cars surround them, drivers asleep at the wheel, horns blaring and piercing needle-like through the stillness.

They’ve stopped before the Lincoln Tunnel, stretching out before them into a great maw, an abyss that swallows up the cacophony of screaming horns and rumbling engines.

Thor follows Heimdall’s stare, ever deeper.

A blue light pulses from the depths of the tunnel, beyond the yellows beaming off of the cars within. It beats ever closer, devouring the headlights, til it comes lapping to the tunnel’s mouth— 

And it’s as though the darkness itself manifests to form a humanoid being, or a parody of such. It bears four limbs, then five, then eight, then four again, ever morphing, like flowing liquid. A black being, standing heads over Thor and Heimdall, and two bloody red eyes set where its face could be, should it choose to have one. 

Though it does not wear a mouth, it still finds a throat for screaming, screeching its confusion at the sight of two supposed humans still left standing. 

Thor gapes up at it, forgetting to breathe. 

“Is that—?” he begins, already knowing it’s a stupid question 

“Must you ask?” comes Heimdall’s brisk reply, before reaching to the blade strapped upon his back. 

And just in time for the shadow to split, straight down the middle, bringing their numbers to fairness with two for two. It stands no less taller, much power to spare after hours of sapping human energy— and the second dives for Thor, just as the first descends upon Heimdall. 

Thick, globular, it stretches a dozen limbs towards him, threatening to loop around him and unleash the power buzzing at its fingertips. Thor dodges away, stumbling back against a van that presses unyielding into his back. The shadow stretches til it blocks every point of escape, left, right, beneath, and bears down upon Thor. 

The Earth child within Thor cowers, knows he cannot best a _shadow_ , he’s _doomed_. 

The prince within him knows better, and swings. 

(Mjölnir. He knows her name, and she knows his touch.)

(She swings true.)

Pained screeching brings Thor to open his eyes. The shadow collapses in on itself, falling to deeply bent knees, clutching at the long rippling line of its once-chest. Oily black drips from Mjölnir’s head, falling to the snow and sizzling away into vapor. 

“Thor!”

Heimdall rips him from his trance, pulling his gaze to see that the first creature is pinned beneath Heimdall’s sword. It bucks and writhes beneath its attacker, Heimdall hanging on and shoving his blade ever deeper. Black falls in floods from the shadow, rendering the monster paler and paler til it is as the snow itself and—

And Thor tears back, taking another swing at his own beast. It learns quickly; ducking away, it slithers beneath the nearest car. Thor throws himself down on all fours, grasping at — nothing—

He hears his name again, and then he is heavy, so heavy, lead upon his back. Thor feels himself wrenched from the ground, pinned to the hood of the car, where he can see black and black and only black. The wind howls, snow falling in droves, pelting down and the beast _roars_. 

“Heimdall,” Thor hears himself say, he hears himself saying the name over and over, rising in a plea for help. Past the rippling shadows wrapping around him, Thor can just see him, hands scrabbling over the hilt of his blade, wrists ensnared in a split off shadow’s grip. This shadow is smaller, so much smaller, but it matters not when neither of them can move. 

The air slowly starts to leave Thor, pressed from his lungs by the weight atop him, insistent. 

Thor is sure, he will suffocate beneath this beast, this will be where it all ends and he has not even begun to understand who he is, and his brother, his brother will have no idea-

And he sees blue light, brilliant, gleaming, and his ears ring.

The shadow slides from him, crumpling to the snow, leaving him panting for breath. Thor bolts upright, vision blurred- even though he scarcely sees past the onslaught of falling white, he still can tell- no golden armor, no, that wasn’t Heimdall. 

No. It is a figure of green, standing atop a truck, proud, clutching a golden spear that glows with that same blue brilliance. He cannot see more, and they do not allow him to- it turns its back on him, and delves into the storm, dissolving into it much as the monsters had. 

Monsters- yes, the beast still lives, it rears up before him from where it fell to the ground, determined to make one last desperate bid for his life.

Thor raises Mjölnir high. He lets her guide him, reaches for base instinct, simply _feels_ what he must do.

Lightning crackles from deep within the heavens, drawn out by his beck and call, and it rips through the gray clouds, tearing them asunder. Blue bolts rain down upon the shadow, til it lets out a dying screech, and it too becomes the snow- til it isn’t.

Thor blinks, realizing he can see now, but only just. The falling snow is gone, replaced by a torrential downpour that lashes against his face. He hears screeching again, prepares to rear back, until he sees that the shadow that was upon Heimdall has melted beneath the rain’s relentless attack.

He tears his blade from the snow, clean of the black ooze that once drenched its ends. 

“Do you understand what you just accomplished, sire?” 

Heimdall, somehow, sounds _astounded_. Thor clambers off the car hood at last, panting, flushed. He feels like his Earth self again- and were he to look down, he would see his clothing from this morning, winter boots and all. 

“I- what did I do?”

Something like a smile plays on Heimdall’s lips.

“I never would have expected you to call upon your thunder when you’re so recently woken.”

He almost wants to tell Heimdall to stand down, that this is hardly his doing when he knows he would not have been able to reach for his lightning without the appearance of their ally.

Whoever they were.

“Suppose I was inspired.” 

x

On one hand, fuck Heimdall and his all seeing eye, because Thor doesn’t buy the ‘whoever they were, they veiled themselves from my sight’ crap.

On the other hand, bless Heimdall, for he is merciful and drops Thor upon his doorstep with a snap. 

Thor doesn’t realize it until he’s sinking to his knees right there on the steps of his apartment building, but he’s fucking exhausted. His thighs burn, his arms ache, his head is fit to split. 

There’s so much to think about. So much to process. 

But goddamn, an entire city population is waking around him, scratching their heads and gawking at one another, and all he can think about is his bed. 

Now that the snow is gone, his winter boots and coat prove unseasonable, and he’s very nearly down to his boxers and tank top when he makes it to his apartment. He’d left it unlocked but nobody was awake enough to do anything about it. 

His ratty found-on-the-curbside couch beckons him inside. A distant thought, almost a worry- would he be able to return to this life after finding out he’s a fucking _prince_?

Turns out, yes, as he easily sinks into his couch and leaves a lovely imprint in the shape of his face in the cushions. Definitely. He’ll love his stupid dinky apartment forever. 

He’ll love it more when he can play with his plants again. 

Thor closes his eyes, with every intention of passing right the fuck out and putting this whole day behind him, pretending he didn’t hear Heimdall say before he left, ‘there will be more where that came from, they have many familiars and they will come now, searching for you’—

And it’s this thought that seizes him when he hears the doorknob rattle.

Thor rolls onto the floor, hitting the ground hard. He grits through the pain, pushing up on his hands, staring at the door and willing for the knob to go still, go away, please, _please_ just be some idiot who got confused while waking up and mistook his apartment for theirs.

That is, until he hears it, that voice he has heard only over the phone for the past year-

“Thor, if you aren’t lying absolutely completely fucking dead on your back in there, I’ll come in and kill you myself.”

He didn’t think he had it in him to rush the door but there he goes, scrabbling across the floor on all fours and climbing up the door to tear it open. He gathers his annoying bastard of a little brother into his arms, squeezing the life out of him.

“Oh my _god_ Loki I thought you were going to be on a train and that the conductor would fall asleep and that you’d crashed and you would be _dead_ and- Fuck! No pinching!”

“Yes, pinching, Thor,” Loki snarls, wriggling free of Thor’s death grip and finding his feet again. He brushes himself down, backpack rattling upon his shoulders. “I get to pinch you as much as I fucking like because you’re an asshole who refuses to answer his little brother’s dozens and dozens of texts and calls despite clearly being at home, as I’m seeing here.”

Thor’s face falls.

“I- I had no idea, I’m so sorry, I was out and trying to figure out what was going on with-”

Something unreadable flashes across Loki’s face. He puts his hand up, stopping Thor.

“Whatever. I know some shit went down and so I guess I can forgive you, but it’s still pretty shitty you forget your phone at home, today of all days.”

He brushes past Thor, not giving him a chance to think, just talking a million miles an hour the way he does when he doesn’t want Thor to question him. ‘So you’ve got a bed set up right right well if not I get yours I slept on mom’s for years I’m not dealing with that again she always felt so bad for my spine but I wasn’t going to take her bed not while she was so ill so yeah uh let’s not think about that let’s think about how I’m here and that it’s for non-mom-getting-sick reasons right right so where’s that bed I’m gonna dump all my books there...’

Thor finds his phone on the coffee table, clinging to life by its last five percent. He opens up to train and bus schedules throughout New York City.

Everything is shut down for the rest of today and tomorrow.

Loki is still babbling, keeping Thor far, far away from asking, just, what the fuck, how did you _get_ here.

And as he stands there, holding his phone, he knows, he doesn’t care. Not just now. Maybe not even tomorrow.

Right now what matters is Loki is home, safe, and Thor isn’t out being crushed to death beneath a fucking shadow monster that cast a spell over the entirety of New York City.

There will be tomorrow. There will be new gardens. There will be time to think.

For now, he thinks only of how to feed this brat that came waltzing into his home, because now, there’s no way they can go out and eat, and he only has what he grew from the gardens.

It both thrills and frightens him to know there will be many more nights spent wondering what to feed him.


End file.
